daylight burns your sleepy eyes [for edgar; backdated to 10/13]

[pylades_drunk]

The sun pours, relentless and orange, across the asphalt when Grantaire drags himself out of the flat. He doesn't quite remember getting himself home last night. He's assured, however, by the engine-like purring in his face that he did. Regardless of how few hours ago that was or how the contact and chemicals that assuaged loneliness all night have transformed into a dull, resigned ache in his bones, the only thing for it is to put one foot in front of the other.

Maybe. Right now the amplified sensations he can still recall with pleasure have been turned way up, and everything's a little grating: the light, the noise of people around him rattling against his teeth. It's not his first unpleasant morning, though. He's half of a mind to have a drink to soothe it, but he starts with a bottle of water that would make Combeferre proud.

Finishing that and some food, and slowly adjusting in the shade of a cafe awning, has him feeling better enough to get on his feet, and without a destination in mind, he sets off down the street.

Comments

[humanresource]

God, his head ached. Edgar blinked in the gray daylight, cursing even that weak exposure. He looked a mess, his clothes rumpled and his skin stained with that oily black substance that the party's host had smeared across his skin. It was mixed with dried sweat and come and Edgar didn't think he'd felt this filthy since the train, which was a farce of course. Compared to the Tail, he was still fucking pristine.

That didn't mean he wanted to run into Grantaire in such a state. "Christ, we look like shit."

[pylades_drunk]

Edgar is disheveled; Grantaire's sure he's in a state as well, but this is a very particular kind of rolling out of bed, namely the kind, R thinks, that comes from someone else's. There's a weird black sort of paint half rubbed off, sticky down his jaw and over his eye, and it makes him into a drawing, eyes blue against it and face all angles. His hair's half spiky and it's both endearing and obvious.

He has no right to the sudden flare of jealous curiosity that spikes, weird and unmistakable, in his stomach at the question of whose fingers had left that there. It's not as though he didn't dance with anyone else, didn't kiss anyone else last night. Hell, he probably doesn't remember every hand that had been on him.

The part of the curiosity that's prurient is more familiar. He knows what Edgar looks like debauched and desirous, and he can't help thinking of it.

His lack of a greeting feels familiar and better for it. "It's the burden of a good night," he says, squinting. "You look more like India ink," he says, with a smirk, reaching without asking to sweep his thumb along his face, inspecting the substance.

[humanresource]

He could feel Grantaire's eyes sweep over him and Edgar only felt more conscious of the bites on his neck, the come that was still dry on his belly under his shirt. Just as Grantaire felt inexplicably jealous, Edgar felt suddenly inexplicably guilty, as if he'd done something to betray him. It was absurd, of course, and Edgar pushed it stubbornly away.

"Someone started smearing it over me. At the party I mean. Joseph, I think his name was." Edgar shrugged, tipping his head a little to give Grantaire access because...why wouldn't he?

[pylades_drunk]

Whatever the black is, it isn't ink. Grantaire looks at it on his fingers, licks one experimentally. It tastes like -- nothing. Not like it has no taste, but like nothing. It's unsettling, but it is interesting.

"I don't need to know his name," Grantaire says with a small amused grin, and drags his fingers down to leave softer, grayer lines alongside the first one, down along his neck where bruises bud along his throat.

"You know what one of the best inventions of this age is?" R asks him, rhetorically. "The hot shower." He's not joking about the wonder of warm water on demand, but it might be an invitation.

[humanresource]

That little bit of saliva was nothing compared to what he'd done over the last night but his skin rose up in goosebumps, all too aware of Grantaire's touch. It was gentler and somehow more memorable than the mad scrambling of Joseph and Neil, the memories of which mixed together now until he could barely remember what was real.

This, at least, he knew was really happening.

"I'm working on that. Finding my way home and all that good shit."

[pylades_drunk]

R can't tell if that's a brush off, because he hasn't really asked anything; he can tell he doesn't want it to be. He has the sense he's walking a fine line with himself, but he can't really bring himself to stop doing it.

"I should let you do that, I suppose," he says, but his eyes are still on him, and he doesn't move, exactly, as much as take half a step backwards.

"You're closer to finding your way to mine, though, here," he gestures around them with a slightly raised eyebrow. "If you wanted to escape the sun for a bit."

[humanresource]

Edgar shrugged, wondering if he was being invited for yet another carnal tussle. After Joseph, after Neil fucking him in the back of his car without sufficient lubrication, his body ached. It was a good ache, but not one that allowed for the real consideration of more sex.

He surprised himself by asking, "What's your building?" He still remembered kissing Grantaire, fitting into his arms.

It couldn't be so bad.

[pylades_drunk]

It would be easy, if that were the whole of it. And certainly, it's not an undesirous invitation: the potential sharing of a shower, the part of Grantaire that wants to leave his own mark along with the bruises on Edgar's neck.

But it's more complex than that. He feels like hell, for one thing, and the reality of the situation might not allow quite as much contact as he'd ideally like. And dragged back into dull reality, the idea of company sounds good. Edgar's wry humor and the way his smile sometimes seems to burst free despite himself, particularly, and if he's going to be entertaining fantasies anyway, the idea of tugging him into bed in a more sleepy, comforting way lingers teasing at the back of R's mind.

Simple things are better. Lust, laughter, anger. Besides, his apartment being near is a convenience, not agreeing to stay. So when Edgar asks about his building, Grantaire stamps down on feeling too pleased about it, but he does smile and points down the street. "Bramford," he says. "Only a few blocks down. I wasn't about to cross town to stop for coffee, this morning."

[humanresource]

"I think the whole city's hungover from that thing, even if they didn't go," Edgar agreed. Walking back to Candlewood to sit by himself or worry about what Curtis might think of him had distinctly less appeal than going back with Grantaire and maybe begging a few hours of sleep in his bed. "I feel like I've been hit by truck."

He gestured for Grantaire to lead the way, hand dangling as if he wanted it to be held before he remembered himself and let it drop down to his side.

"You don't have work or some shite do you? I couldn't imagine doing that on a day like this. Or much anything at all."

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire laughs softly, nodding. "I'd believe it. I haven't the faintest idea what I took last night, but if you told me it affected the whole city, I'm not sure I could argue."

He nods. "It's not the worst punishment I've ever had for a good time," he says, wryly, thinking of some days that had started with wine and ended in a haze of absinthe and opium. "But I can't say I enjoy it." He's not quite accustomed to the heaviness of this particular hangover.

There's a moment there, where he thinks Edgar might reach for his hand, thinks he wants to, but he drops it to his side and Grantaire thinks he must have imagined it in a fit of sentimentality. It's been a while since he had such simple affection available to him. Kisses, yes, the sweeter and less desperate of which have been with Edgar, mostly, but something as pure as a held hand? It's been more months without Tunny than it was with him, now, and it's easier to deride such longings for the traps that they are.

Still. He stretches his fingers out as they walk toward the Bramford, and if the back of his hand brushes Edgar's, it can't be helped.

"No," he says, shaking his head with a wry, relieved smile. "Monday's my weekend. Thank Christ, I don't think anyone wants me trying to serve customers, right now. Or balance plates."

[humanresource]

"There was ecstasy. That one I know for certain, 'cause I've had it before. The rest...for all I know, I was drinking liquid Kronol." He doubted it had been there but who knew. Having spent a little time up close and personal with the man, Edgar had thought he saw something darkly and terribly magical in him. It wouldn't have surprised him.

When Grantaire actually reached out for him, Edgar let out a soft sigh and took the offered hand. Strange, the way such a small touch could make him feel so happy.

"I haven't got a job. Haven't bothered."

[pylades_drunk]

"Is that what that was," he says with a little smile, thinking of the way he'd felt, the bubbling synaesthesia of colors and music and touch, and the pleasing idea of everything being ultimately all right, even really poor decisions. "Divine madness."

He smiles a little as Edgar takes his hand; more pleasing than the comfort of little contact, even, is the way he can feel Edgar's whole body relax a little into it. He's not sure what that says about him, but he feels a little greedy for it, for being a comfort to someone.

"Well, this place does seem to not want us to starve," he comments, glancing at Edgar; he's not sure if his lack of interest in a job is due to not needing one or not seeing a place for himself. He can't judge. "At home, I was a student, and I don't think I'd have thought to work here, but a friend of mine works at Tintern and he offered. Anyway, I think too much when I'm on my own."

They're approaching the Bramford, and he nods at the gothic, aged building. "Here we are." R digs for the keys with his free hand, heading them up toward his apartment.

[humanresource]

"It's the best thing I've taken at those parties. Fuck the rest." Edgar rubbed the heel of his hand into his forehead, knowing that the aching side effects came from the other substances he couldn't place. He'd have to avoid those in the future. Maybe avoid those parties altogether.

That last one seemed quite unlikely.

"'Sides, I can't do anything." He pretended to be someone officious, reading a resume, "Past positions: cannon fodder for a failed uprising. Qualifications and skills" absolutely fuck all." He snorted and gestured at himself before stepping back to give Grantaire the space to unlock the door.

[pylades_drunk]

"Those parties are usual, around here?" Grantaire can't tell if he's looking forward to a city full of such intensity or a little concerned for his own productivity. Either way he's pretty sure it won't be the last such party he attends.

Grantaire has to laugh. "You're preaching to the cannon fodder," he points out, unlocking the door and starting up the stairs. "My qualifications for being a bartender involve drinking quite a lot and knowing someone who works there. If you do want a job, just invent some history and smile," he advises, never one to adhere too strongly to codes of honor. "What will they do? Contact your references?"

He shrugs one shoulder as they get to the apartment. "But if you're enjoying being one of the leisure classes, I say, by all means." He unlocks the door, with a momentary pang of doubt about what state his home is actually in. Probably all right. "Oh, I should warn you --"

Glenmeower comes to the door living up to his name. "-- there's a cat," he chuckles, giving the big black cat's ears a ruffle. Owen winds around Edgar's ankles investigatorily and chirps, bounding off into the living room.

[humanresource]

"Usual enough that I've been to one other. Ended up walking home looking just like this." He'd also fucked Neil that night, or been fucked by to be more accurate. It had been a synesthetic whirl of colors, mixed with teeth and nails. So had the second time. So had last night, up until they got to Neil's apartment. Then things had shifted into something more affectionate. Not exactly gentle, bt different.

Edgar kept that to himself. "I don't think I'd be good anywhere. Don't have anything exactly going for me." He smiled self-deprecatingly and then paused, bending to regard the little black creature.

"Hullo," he said appreciatively. "You're like a bit of soot, aren't you?"

[pylades_drunk]

"I'll be better prepared for the aftermath, next time," Grantaire smirks.

He frowns a little at the self-deprecation. Maybe it's just that his own is so often hidden behind a smile or an ironic joke, or that it seems more natural for himself than others, but he doesn't like it; it doesn't seem fair to Edgar. "I think you could find a place, if you wanted," he says, smiling a little as he leans down to the cat.

"He's like a very loud piece of soot," R says affectionately. Glenmeower mrows as if to illustrate and bumps his head against Edgar's leg proprietorially. "That likes to pretend he's starving. He'll be yours in half a minute if you scratch under his chin."

"So this is home, or something like it," he gestures around, feeling oddly self-conscious. It's not impeccable; he doesn't have many people to impress, after all. He's got some sketched-on papers lying out on the table, a whiskey bottle sitting beside the couch and a few dishes in the sink, a shirt thrown over the back of a chair, but it's better than it could be. The bedroom's down the hall, blessedly darker than the south-facing living room, and across from the bathroom.

[humanresource]

"I don't know. I always looked good as one of those idle playthings," Edgar said. He smirked, perfectly aware that he looked no such thing. He had grown up too hungry and too scarred to be any kind of bauble to someone's life.

He pushed the thought away and bent to rub under the cat's chin with a brilliant smile. "Oh you're lovely, you are," he said, nearly a coo. "Beautiful example of your species." Enjoying how the cat seemed to like the attention, Edgar was encouraged to scoop the creature up into his lap.

"You draw? Could I see?"

[pylades_drunk]

"I think you're in the wrong apartment, then," Grantaire says with a smirk back. "Isn't the point of being someone's trophy to end up in the lap of luxury?"

R watches him dote on Owen, totally endeared and slightly annoyed at himself for it. The cat, meanwhile, purrs loudly and tilts his head sideways to bump against Edgar's knee, eyes happy slits. He settles quite happily into his arms, looking very selfsatisfied.

"Oh," R says. "Why not, I suppose." He gestures at the papers. He hasn't got anything too embarrassing out. "I guess I pulled pastels out last night," he says with a laugh: one of them is a very colorful and not-too-careful beginning of a self portrait that fades into wide geometric patterns at the edges and stops halfway through the face where he probably got distracted by something.

There are some other colorful drawings on the same page, abstract lines and shades, some beginnings of sketches. One he can tell is the lit edge of Edgar's face, because he knows, but hopefully it's too abstract to identify.

His other drawings are a little more sensible: people at the Tintern, the cat in smudges of charcoal, an unflattering self-portrait with tired eyes and a bottle nearby.

"They're not anything special."

[humanresource]

Edgar leaned forward, Glenmeower still clutched into his lap so that he could scratch his ears and spoil him with affection. He was still uncertain where he and Grantaire stood but he cat's affections were easy to determine. The colorful drawings passed in front of him and Edgar regarded them with a kind of reverence.

"Painter only had charcoal, a few bits of chalk. You've got all sorts of colors." Bending forward, his eyes lingered on one that seemed familiar, if only as the unfamiliar face that Edgar saw in the mirror.

Grantaire had drawn him?

Before Edgar could ask, another drawing was laid on top of it, this one of Grantaire. "You look sad in that one."

[pylades_drunk]

"I'm a little spoiled for choice here," he says, with a little smile. "At home, supplies were hard to get, certain colors, and types of things. Here I have more money, and there are stores full of different mediums."

Edgar's face is more awed than Grantaire's ever is at his own work, and he feels a little shy about it, as though he's somehow tricked someone not raised with sufficient art in their life into thinking that he's talented.

"I suppose," he allows, though to him, the self-portrait mostly looks honest. He comes around and sits next to Edgar, inspecting his world-weary expression, the features at no attractive angle. "It happens. My thoughts and I don't always play well together." It's an understatement, and he wonders, as he usually does, what Edgar would think of him if he knew how often melancholy was his default state. It's not an attractive quality.

[humanresource]

"I love them," Edgar declared. Reverently, he ran fingertips along the edges of the paper but didn't dare touch the lines themselves. Edgar, who'd been told many times that he was gifted in spoiling things, didn't want to harm Grantaire's art.

Edgar looked at Granaire's face and the his self-portrait, frowning a little. He looked as if he had some of the same burdens that Curtis endured. Something deep and unspeakable that cut him away from others.

"I like your face. Even if it's melancholy."

[pylades_drunk]

That declaration surprises a little, self-conscious smile to his face, a little more tentative and realer than the brash, wide grin he grants most things. "Someone should, abandoned children of a restless mind," he defers softly. But he's caught, watching Edgar touch the pages, run his fingertips over them, as though they're something precious. As though they're alive. It brings an unexpected catch to his chest.

He'll figure out he's wrong soon enough, Grantaire's sure, but there's a very selfish part of him that doesn't want him to.

R blinks at that, and more action than words for once, leans in and kisses Edgar, impulsive and softly intent, presses fingers to his jaw.

[humanresource]

"What's got you so restless, then?"

There was no time for an answer as Grantaire leaned forward to kiss him. Edgar blinked, surprised, but was happy to lean forward. This was different than kissing Joseph, who kissed like he wanted it to hurt. It was also entirely different from Neil, even at his gentlest.

"Did I say something particularly good then?"

[pylades_drunk]

The cat hops down as R leans across to kiss Edgar, letting him closer with a slightly affronted grumble when Owen hits the ground. Grantaire takes advantage of the space. The kiss is the only way he can think of to express the - probably accidental - soft spot the words have hit, certainly better than trying to deal with it in words. It's gentle, and giving, and a little wondering, but it's not unwanting, not with Edgar so tangible under fingertips and the sweat of last night still on his skin.

He wonders if Edgar knows how much he could get away with, how much he could ask for with a lead in as simple as I like your face even if it's melancholy.

"Mm," he hums, with a small coy smile at being played to, pulling back just a little, and runs a thumb over Edgar's lower lip thoughtfully. "Something like that."